I Am America



I am America, and I have lost my soul.

I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,

but when evil sucked dry and despair rose, I went back to find it;

and there was a gaping hole where a soul should be.


I am America, and I hid my best treasure

while investing in trinkets and bangles and flat-screen fiction,

ignoring the gaunt hungry by the side of the road,

supposing that anyone capable of making such a lovely sign

was surely capable of holding down a job.

At least, that’s what I’m thinking in my stinking rich car

with my skinny latté and my skinny jeans.


I am America, and I need a hero to find my soul.

I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,

but when a wet horror-cry echoed and I remembered its worth,

in that dearth I knew perhaps I was lost.


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When You


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When you can’t cry, or will not because your heart is hard,

I will cry for you—tears to seek the cracks, a way in.

When you can’t listen, I will be your ears

to hear the hope in a flower, a bird, a melody.

When you can’t speak, I will whisper words your heart would say

in unguarded moments, if it could crawl from beneath the dead weight.

When you can’t believe—when your faith lisps with fragile emptiness,

I will believe in the darkness for both of us.

When you can’t pray, I will pray.

When you can’t,

when you won’t,

I will

with hope.

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